Savior
by castiello
Summary: Sam's feeling guilty about something. Dean makes it better. Set very early Season Four, between 4.02 and 4.03.


Disclaimer: I do not own Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, or the show "Supernatural." I do not make any profit from writing about them. These are sad truths that I wake up to every day.

**  
Savior  
**by castiello

The woman had tears in her eyes as she gave each brother a hug: first Dean, then Sam. Her daughter peeked out from behind her leg, gracing the boys with a small, shy smile before ducking out of sight again.

It was Dean who had snatched the girl from the claws of the water wraith; Sam, who had sent the creature to meet its unholy maker.

The mother couldn't stop thanking them.

"You _saved_ her," she said, over and over again. "You saved my baby girl…"

The lady kept smiling, and sniffling, and stroking her daughter's head, and _thanking_ them until all Sam could offer were curt nods as he shifted from foot to foot, shooting not-so-subtle glances at the parked Impala.

It went on for almost another ten minutes before the brothers finally managed to extricate themselves. Sam practically dove for the car, while his brother followed more languidly, tilting his face into the sun-warmed breeze and half-closing his eyes as he strolled along.

The little girl waved to them from the porch as they climbed in. Dean waved back. Sam stared out the front windshield and fidgeted. There was a loud creak as Dean shut the driver's side door, another, smaller one as he settled into his seat, and then they were off.

Off to the next headless corpse, blood-spattered apartment, or child-eating goblin.

Maybe next time they could at least go after a demon – something more about the actual _hunt_ and less about the rescue. Maybe. If he could talk Dean into it.

Sam sighed.

He should be happy right now, really. His brother was back from Hell, back by his side. They had just saved a lady, saved her daughter, saved everyone but the teenaged boy whose death had alerted them to the case in the first place. Days in the hunting life didn't get much better than this one. So, Sam should be feeling pretty darn good.

Dean obviously was, if his loud, slightly-off-key singing and exuberant drumming of the steering wheel were any indication. The music blasting loud enough to rattle the car frame was a pretty sure sign, too.

AC/DC.

_Back in Black._

One of Dean's "happy" songs.

Sam himself didn't have a happy song. He had an awful lot of sad ones. They were all on the iPod Dean had purged from his beloved baby within hours of his return.

Sam didn't miss it.

Over on his left, Dean was belting the song louder than ever, and making a game of skillfully dodging the road's many mud-filled potholes. Every so often, he couldn't avoid one, and let out a good-natured groan as chocolate milk-colored spray rained down on the windshield.

Sam sighed again and stared out the window, watching leaves and bark smear together into a pointless, green-brown mess.

Unfortunately, it did not take Dean long to notice his younger brother's clear lack of enthusiasm. He cranked the music down and turned to give Sam a look. "Dude, what's with the face?"

Sam gave his head a little shake. Attempted a smile. "What face?"

"The_ '_tortured emo' face."

Sam scowled at the characterization. "I wasn't making that face."

"Were, too," Dean insisted. "You're _still_ making it. You look like somebody just shot your dog."

"It's nothing," Sam murmured. "I'm fine…"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Right. Seriously, man, what gives? We just saved a reasonably hot chick, and a reasonably hot chick's daughter. Dude, we won this one. It's Miller Time, so why isn't Sammy drinkin'?"

"I told you, it's nothing. Just forget about it."

"_Sam_…"

Sam turned to stare out the window again, effectively shutting down the conversation.

"Fine. Be that way…Bitch."

Sam did not offer the expected retort. He just stared through the glass until the rushing scenery started to make him sick. Then he switched to staring at his own kneecaps. There was an old, well-worn hole in his jeans, the soft white threads hanging in a clump off to one side. Sam fingered them absently.

Beside him, Dean sighed and stepped down on the gas pedal. The pothole game had been forgotten.

Sam's long fingers smoothed the loose threads of his blue jeans into a single, flat layer, and folded them over the hole. They were too short. Not enough fabric left to make up for what was missing.

_Not enough…_

Sam swallowed and looked away.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, so softly it was almost lost under the rumble of the tires.

His brother looked over, eyebrows wrinkling. "For what?"

Sam didn't answer right away.

Dean laughed - a little nervously - and gave his brother a playful shove across the seat. "Hey, don't tell me you spilled taco sauce in the back seat again, 'cause that took forever to get out last ti –"

"I'm sorry for not getting you out of Hell."

Silence hung dead in the air for several seconds. Then Dean sighed heavily and reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. "Sammy…"

Sam felt his eyes start to prickle. He scrubbed at them almost viciously.

"Come on, man, haven't we been over this already? You got _nothing_ to be sorry for. I told you, it's oka –"

"No, it isn't!" Sam insisted desperately, looking up at his brother with fierce eyes. "It is _anything_ but okay. After everything that's happened, after everything you've done, it just…it should've been me…" Sam trailed off, throat working to swallow back emotion, and Dean remained compassionately silent, seeming to sense there was more to come.

"I mean, you were in _Hell_," Sam went on, when he was back in control, "You may not remember it –" Dean's gaze flickered briefly " – But you were there, every day of those four months: suffering, probably _waiting_ for me to find some way to get you out, and I never did." Sam sighed and shook his head in despair. "Man, every single day, we're driving back and forth across the country, saving people we don't even know, people we'll never see again in our lives, and the one person I _should've_ saved…"

"Well, maybe you did," Dean offered.

Sam frowned, losing his train of thought. "Did what?"

"Save me."

At this, Sam let out a bitter laugh. "Uh, Dean, an _angel_ pulled you out. That's not really up for debate anymore."

"No, I know. But…you said you tried everything, right?"

"Everything I could think of. Everything I could get my hands on." And Sam began to enumerate miserably: "Hoodoo, Voodoo, crossroads pacts, Necromancy, séance – "

"Did you pray?"

Sam turned his head sharply to stare at his brother. "What?"

"Did you _pray_ for me to be saved?" Dean repeated quietly.

Sam's throat tightened unexpectedly. It took a painful swallow to get his next words out. Even then, they shook: "Every day."

And Dean shrugged, giving a little half-smile, his happy music still playing low in the background. "Maybe somebody listened."

Sam huffed another short, disbelieving laugh, but Dean's gaze held steady – kind and unwavering. And slowly, something seemed to shift loose inside Sam's chest, making it easier to breathe. Easier than it had been in over four months.

"Maybe…" He echoed, faltering, then growing more certain. His lips twitched a smile. "Yeah, maybe."


End file.
